He looked around at his library. Yes, this suited him very well. This, for now, reflected his inner mood and character:
sombre, thoughtful, tasteful, but with a hint of the impressive and the unusual too.
'And so modest, Doctor,' he murmured, gently mocking himself. It had started in his last incarnation, this sense of self-awareness, of his own very definite place in the complex machinations of the universe. One might almost call it a sense of grandeur, if such a phrase didn't stray too close, dangerously close in fact, to the way in which many of his foes viewed themselves.
Like and yet unlike. The incorruptibly good and the indescribably evil. Flip-sides of the same coin. Dark thoughts, Doctor. Dark thoughts.
[Eighth Doctor Adventures #3 - The Bodysnatchers]
✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵
How contented the Doctor looked. He was an expert in simply pottering about, easing his way into crowded shop doorways, picking things up, sampling stuff, haggling away with burly, viridian-fleshed lizard women. Carpets and monkeys and coffee pots and mirrors - he was interested in everything. This was how he had made his way through life - picking up little bits here and there. Perusing and wandering. A browser.
He walked with the insouciance of the extremely rich, and yet, in a sense, he had nothing. No real home, no proper role. Nothing to anchor him to life. All he had was his rackety, miraculous, ridiculous Ship and his various fragmented friendships with beings scattered throughout the centuries. But what did he have that was really his?
All Sam wanted to ask him was this: ‘In the end, do you think all your travels have ever made you actually happy?’
[Eighth Doctor Adventures #15 - The Scarlet Empress]